I roll onto my
back and something crunches beneath me. As I shift to dig it out, the empty
bottle of Templeton Rye drops off the bed and clinks against the other empty
bottle on the floor. My fingers close around the object, and I pull it out.

The small black
notebook with a red rose on the cover stares at me. It’s Kate’s diary.

Suddenly, last
night is no longer a fuzzy mass of shit I don’t remember. The anniversary of
the day I watched her take her last breath is the worst goddamn day of the
year. Actually, this whole week is an annual painfest. It’s an unnecessary
reminder of her leaving me. That she tore my heart out and took it with her to
the grave.

I don’t want it
back. It belongs to her.

I scan over her
letter to me again—her last entry. Her beautiful, hopeful words promising me
I’d be okay. What the hell did she know? She’s gone, and I’m lefthere
with all the fucking memories she dumped on me.

My last wish, Damian, is that once you’ve read my
diary, you’ll put it in a box. Place it in the attic somewhere and leave it
there. Let it collect dust.

That’s not all, though. You have a whole life in
front of you. Don’t waste it. Don’t dwell on the past. Move forward.

Life isn’t about merely surviving. It’s about
living.

Damian, my love, my final wish is for you to let me
go.

Love Always, Kate

How the hell am
I supposed to forget her? Move on? She has no freaking clue what she did to me.

Fuck!

I’m losing it.
Breaking down again now that I’m no longer numb.

She shouldn’t
have left me. She should have taken the stupid drug then I could have saved
her. My blood. My blood was a match to hers, and I would have given it all to
her if she held on a little longer.

I glance at the
empty whiskey bottles on the floor. I’m still the same bastard I was four years
ago. The only difference is now I don’t have my brother’s girlfriend to fuck
when I need the extra release alcohol can’t give me.

No, Ellie
high-tailed it out of my life the morning of Kate’s funeral. One last roll in
the sack to deaden my pain, and then she moved to Florida. Something about
studying marine biology or some shit like that.

“Yeah, man. Give
me a minute,” I yell, throwing on the first t-shirt I see. I grab a pair of
jeans off the floor and tuck my phone in the pocket.

“About time,”
Dylan says, tossing me a set of keys. “Found ’em.”

I swipe a
protein bar out of the cupboard. “Yeah? Where?”

“Right there, on
the counter.” He sounds annoyed. Dude’s a perfectionist, and sometimes I think
his decision to room with me is his idea of community service. Dylan’s had my
back since junior high though, and he’s the only person I consider a friend.

“Thanks,” I say.
“So, are we going yet? I don’t want to be late.”

Dylan shakes his
head at my irresponsibility and follows me out to my BMW. Philosophy is the one
class we share this semester, and parking is a bitch, so we’re riding together.
But I have plans after this final, and Dylan isn’t part of them. Hopefully he
has another ride home, ’cause I’m not waiting for his slow ass to finish the
exam before I leave.

Sure enough, an
hour and a half later, I’m done and Dylan is still scribbling out his answers.
There’s a good ninety minutes left of class, and my roommate will use each and
every one of them before he walks out. No way in hell am I staying that long.

“Hey, I’m
leaving, man,” I whisper to him.

“Seriously?
You’re finished already?”

“Uh, yeah.”

He’s annoyed
because while he’s been pulling all-nighters for a week, I’ve cracked a book
for maybe two hours. If I don’t know the shit by now, no amount of poring over
the material again is going to do any good. Besides, this week I have other
things on my mind.

“Fine. Go,” he
says.

“Later.”

I gather my
stuff and head up front to the prof. His eyes lift over the rim of his glasses
to study me. I’m the first one to hand in my final, and he probably thinks I’ve
done a half-assed job.

I didn’t,
though. When he checks it, he’ll find every answer as flawlessly correct as
usual. I’m a Lowell, and for the last six years I haven’t been living up to
that. Until now. Because of the deal I cut with the Good Doctor.

I’ve held onto
an almost perfect 4.0 GPA for the last five semesters.

Finally, the
prof nods at me and I walk out of class, leaving my junior year of college
behind.

Born and raised in Iowa, d. Nichole King writes her stories
close to home. There's nothing like small-town Midwest scenery to create
the perfect backdrop for an amazing tale.

She wrote her first book in junior high and loved every second of it.
However, she couldn't bring herself to share her passion with anyone.
She packed it away until one day, with the encouragement of her
husband, she sat down at the computer and began to type. Now, she can't
stop.

When not writing, d. is usually curled up with a book, scrapbooking, or doing
yet another load of laundry.

Along with her incredible husband, she lives in small-town Iowa with her four
adorable children and their dog, Peaches.

"A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies. A man who never
reads lives only one." --George R. R. Martin, A Dance with Dragons

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